


Lapful

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Makeup Artist Dean, Makeup-Wearing Dean Winchester, Oral Sex, Photographer Castiel, gender fluidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 11:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: People enjoy having their photos taken by Castiel because he’s like a ghost and can get all the good shots without being intrusive.There is one person in the industry, however, who is entirely unaffected by Castiel’s quiet behavior and is basically one-hundred percent opposite of him in the talking department, and coulddefinitelybe considered… intrusive.Dean Winchester, twenty-eight years old, licensed esthetician and certified makeup artist, is… a menace.





	Lapful

**Author's Note:**

> reference: [this pic](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes/status/1064284943604281344) of me on my twitter  
> extra inspo from [katie](https://mobile.twitter.com/thetrashgal)  
> as usual i start with one thing and then spiral it totally out of control

Photographing weddings is where Castiel finds his passion. Many of his friends - and one concerned family member - like to voice their concerns about Castiel’s bachelorhood and suggest that he use a gig to try and “find love” or whatever their flowery words for the week were. Castiel gets it, it _is_ sort of odd for a forty-something year old bachelor to be so adamant about photographing weddings of all things, but this is where the thrives.

It’s where he can just… be.

The romance, the hustle and bustle, the frantic running around of people sure they’re going to be late for the biggest day of their lives only to make it at _just_ the last moment - Castiel lives for it. He books about a wedding a month, the income plenty to keep him afloat in the loft he lives in above a local mom n’ pop cafe. Between wedding gigs he does things like senior portraits and, when the mood strikes, fashion events for local salons; but weddings are his heart and soul. 

They’re, simply put: magical.

Castiel is a typically quiet person; not that he doesn’t have anything say, it’s just… tedious to put his thoughts into words, so he… doesn’t. His clients just assume he’s ‘quirky and artistic’, but Castiel really just hates idle chatter. Whatever he is helps sell his image, however; stoic, cool, calm. People enjoy having their photos taken by him because he’s like a ghost and can get all the good shots without being intrusive.

There is one person in the industry, however, who is entirely unaffected by Castiel’s quiet behavior and is basically one-hundred percent opposite of him in the talking department, and could _definitely_ be considered… intrusive.

Dean Winchester, twenty-eight years old, licensed esthetician and certified makeup artist, is… a menace.

He’s always in Castiel’s periphery, even when Castiel isn’t holding his camera. Dean gets booked almost as frequently as Castiel does for weddings and, frustratingly enough, typically gets booked for the same events as Castiel. It’s annoying, especially when Castiel’s brother Gabriel suggests that Castiel and Dean go into a partnership together to drum up more business and help boost one another’s career.

Castiel and Dean are like fire and ice. The sun and the moon. Along with many other metaphors Castiel is usually too exhausted at the end of the day to try and think of. Dean’s overtly extroverted personality is the source of a lot of tension headaches during gigs. Instead of trying to engage Castiel in conversation Dean just talks and talks and talks, never caring whether or not Castiel actually replies to him, and he’s never offended by Castiel’s short or one word replies. There are a lot of one-sided conversations when the man is around, and Castiel isn’t really sure why Dean even tries talking to him at all. 

And yet… 

There’s something magnetic about Dean. One would have to be blind or stupid to not think that way. It’s gotten to the point where at the end of a gig, when Castiel is scrolling through his camera roll, he’s embarrassed to see that there are more photos of Dean than his actual clients. Aside from the fact that Dean is in most of the ‘getting ready’ photos, brush in hand, eyes narrowed in concentration, there are also photos of Dean hanging out on the sidelines, beer or champagne in hand, laughing, smiling, chatting - interacting with everyone around.

Engaging in conversations that run on a two-way street.

Which is fine.

Except for the fact that Dean is… as devastatingly beautiful as he is mildly exasperating, apparently enough so that Castiel can’t _not_ take photos of him any chance he gets. 

Today’s gig is a gay wedding. Castiel has photographed quite a few, since he advertises himself as a queer photographer (it ensures that he gets the _right_ clientele, and none of the idiots). The two men getting married, Paul and Anthony, are the typical poster children for gay men. When Castiel had taken the gig and scoped out their facebook profiles he had initially thought he was being catfished. These guys are _handsome_. Classically so, with strong jaws, broad shoulders, and dark hair. Castiel had to make sure that it was an actual wedding and not a photoshoot for GQ.

Not that he’s going to complain about photographing some beautiful men.

No, his complaints are few and far between… until Dean shows up. He must know the men personally because Anthony pulls Dean in for a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. Castiel can’t ever get a pin on Dean’s sexuality, not wanting to assume anything about a male being in the beauty biz, but Dean is so comfortable around anyone and everyone Castiel sometimes _thinks_ his gaydar pings, but it quickly gets fizzled by Dean’s cocky attitude and raucous laughter. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean greets once he’s done with the groom. He’s got his train case in one hand, a beer in the other. He’s wearing tight black jeans, red combat boots, a red flannel and… oh.

When he turns to fully face Castiel, he sees Dean is wearing an AC/DC shirt shredded and cut into a crop top, completely opposite of the jeans and henleys he’s usually so fond of wearing.

This is easily a level four on the kinsey richter scale. An earthquake.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel returns the greeting a little stiffly. He’s already standing by the area designated for makeup, camera in his hands, eyes glued to the cut of Dean’s abs. 

Oh, to be young again. 

“S’a good day for a wedding,” Dean says as he sets his makeup kit down on the fold out table provided for him. He tips his beer back, Castiel’s eyes watching his adam’s apple bob. Normally Dean has some scruff on his jaw, but today he’s clean shaven. And - oh. Upon closer inspection, Dean is wearing a full face of makeup. It’s subtle and natural, but Castiel’s photographer eye can see the shadow of contour, the sweep of blush, the kiss of highlight. Dean’s eyes have a nude, shimmery shadow on the lids and his lashes are long and dark with mascara. “I was thinkin’ of commissionin’ you to get some photos of me, too.” 

“Hm?” Castiel finally comes back to earth. “Sorry?” 

Dean’s got a wry smile on his lips. “I said I’ll pay you to get some good shots of me doin’ their makeup today.” 

“Oh,” Castiel reflexively lifts his camera little, “Sure.” 

“Cool,” Dean says emphatically.

Oh, no.

Castiel steps out of the way so Dean can set up his table. He lifts the camera up to his eye this time and gets a tight zoom on Dean’s hands carefully arranging palettes and brushes on the table; Dean’s nails are painted black, the tips chipped too artfully to be from a long wear versus being purposely scuffed. Anthony sits down and Castiel zooms out and takes a few steps back so he’s not in Dean’s space. The time passes in a blur, Castiel’s camera shutter clicking, Dean in his element.

Anthony is smiling a lot, but Castiel can’t really hear what Dean is saying. It looks good through the viewfinder. Dean is always charismatic and engaged with his customers, and now that Castiel actually has an excuse to shoot him, he’s not holding back. Forty-five minutes pass, Dean’s “ideal window” of time to apply makeup to his clients, and when he pulls away Castiel knows he should focus on Anthony, but - _Dean_.

Dean looks radiantly pleased with himself. 

He turns to Castiel and winks right when the shutter clicks and Castiel drops his camera, the strap digging into his neck and making him wince slightly. Dean sees that and chuckles, grinning to himself as he starts cleaning up his makeup kit. Castiel barely remembers he’s at a high profile, well-paying event, and begrudgingly leaves Dean’s side to follow the groom around while he continues getting ready.

For the rest of the day Castiel can’t stop thinking about Dean.

Later that night, filled with champagne and lingering at the reception to soak in how good he feels about today’s gig, Castiel is surprised when Dean finds his way to him. He’s changed out of his earlier attire and is now dressed smartly in a pair of well-fitting slacks and a dark button-up, hair slicked in a way Castiel hasn’t seen before.

He misses the crop top.

“Hey,” Dean greets.

“Hello,” Castiel replies, friendly and warm. He’s moderately tipsy. Good thing he took an Uber. 

“Get some good shots today?” Dean asks. His hands are in the pockets of his slacks, and he seems to be amused at how friendly Castiel is being. 

Castiel nods. “Lots. Should photograph you more often.” He blinks at his own words, suddenly wishing he would have kept his mouth shut.

But Dean laughs, sending Castiel a slightly crooked, charming smile. “Y’know, you can shoot me any time you want.” 

Castiel blinks. “I can?” 

“You’re a great photographer, Cas,” Dean compliments him like he’s talking about a sunny day.

“Oh.” 

“Had a little too much to drink, old man?” Dean’s voice turns a little teasing, his eyes soft and warm. 

“I think so,” Castiel admits. All of his camera equipment is packed away in the bag by his feet, and he wishes desperately he had something in his hands to fidget with. A camera would be preferred, so he can catch the way the tealights make Dean’s cheekbones pop. 

“Well,” Dean is suddenly close, and he runs a palm over Castiel’s chest, the touch solid, firm, and hot through the material of Castiel’s button-up. “Give me a call. Let’s get together sometime.” 

Dean leaves, and Castiel lets out the breath he’d been holding. He lifts a hand to trace the path Dean’s fingers had blazed across his chest, and then lets out a little, delirious giggle when he realizes Dean had dropped his business card in his breast pocket.

Slick.

He’s way out of Castiel’s league.

\--

After a few texts Castiel and Dean settle on a day to shoot. A bit more deliberation and idea-tossing has Castiel inviting Dean over to his loft, some ideas stuck in his head after Dean says he wants to do something ‘soft’, whatever that may mean. Dean says he’ll take care of his own wardrobe and makeup. They agree to meet on a Sunday afternoon, the only sunny day in the upcoming week, and Castiel spends all of Saturday preparing.

His loft is already a bit more… delicate, than anyone would expect. The space is one large room, the floor plan open. The toilet is tucked into a closet, but there’s a claw foot bath in a tiled corner with a glass wall cutting up the space. The shower is in there as well, the kind that pours like rain, and the rest of the apartment is furnished in soft whites, corals and creams, twinkle lights threaded along the industrial piping on the ceiling. 

It’s feminine, Castiel knows, but it’s home.

The sheets on his knee-high bed are freshly laundered, the bed made but not perfectly so. There’s a mountain of powder blue pillows atop it, and Castiel has brought out more twinkle lights to drape across the piles of blanket and pillows. The bathtub is cleaned and sparkling, brass feet polished, glass so clear someone might try to walk right through it. His kitchen is cleaned, stainless steel appliances free of smudges and fingerprints, his living room orderly but cozy, the cream couch draped with a few pink and coral blankets and the white wing chair angled slightly inwards towards the glass coffee table. 

There’s a knock on his door at exactly one p.m. and Castiel feels a flutter in his chest. Since they’re inside he’s opted to be casual, grey sweats with a white vneck, and he briefly worries that he’s _too_ comfortable. He probably should have shaved his stubble. But when he answers the door and Dean rakes his eyes over his frame with a small smile, his worries get carried away.

“Hey,” Dean says, coming inside with a rolling suitcase and his makeup kit. He glances around Castiel’s loft, his brows steadily rising. “Wow.” 

Castiel swallows, feeling heat in his cheeks. 

Dean comes in the rest of the way and Castiel shuts the door behind him. “Man, I gotta say I wasn’t expecting your place to look like this.” Castiel stays quiet while Dean shrugs out of his jacket. He’s wearing worn jeans and a Metallica tshirt, his face free of makeup, hair unstyled. “I really like it.” 

Anxiety Castiel wasn’t even aware of releases from his stomach as he takes Dean’s coat and hangs it up. “Thank you.” 

Dean rubs his hands together and turns to send Castiel a smile. “Mind if I set up by a window to do my makeup?” 

Castiel gestures towards the kitchen window, which has a bench seat below it. “This window has the best indirect lighting.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, grabbing his makeup kit and making his way over.

Castiel busies himself by setting up his equipment. He deliberates where to put his softbox and decides to just leave it in the middle of the loft for now, figuring he can move it to wherever they want to go. Dean is quiet as he does his makeup, the atmosphere of the loft a little too solemn for Castiel’s tastes; he plugs his phone into the speaker on his computer desk and plays some lo-fi hip hop, Dean letting out a hum of approval. Unsure how long it’s going to take for Dean to get ready Castiel makes sure his camera is ready, lenses prepped and cleaned, and glances over just in time to see Dean closing up his makeup case.

“I’m gonna get changed,” Dean says. On his way to grab his rolling suitcase he slows, sending Castiel a… nervous glance? Odd. “I uh- know we don’t know each other that well or anything, and I browsed your portfolio and didn’t really see anything like… uh, like what I wanna do today.” Dean had said his inspiration had been ‘soft’. That’s why Castiel had invited him to his loft, which is pretty much the definition of soft. Castiel tilts his head curiously. Dean’s smile is a little shy. “Anyway- uh. I’m gonna change and I hope you… are ok with my vision.” 

He ducks into the bathroom and leaves Castiel frowning slightly in the middle the room. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dean _shy_ before, so this is a bit strange. Castiel picks up his camera, draping the strap around his neck, feeling grounded by the scratchy material sliding over his skin. He walks over towards his bed, reaching to pull open the sheer, lacy white curtains. Sunlight spills onto the bed and he stares thoughtfully at it for a moment, before he puts the curtains back in place. Muted light will probably work best for whatever Dean’s vision is. 

The bathroom door opens. Castiel turns and then immediately thanks himself for having his camera on a strap, because his fingers fumble in surprise and he drops it, the bulk of it hitting him square in the gut. 

Dean looks… incredible.

Everything is a pale, sheer, creamy pink. He’s wearing a woman’s negligee, a bodysuit that hugs what curves he has and gives the illusion of more. He’s wearing a transparent nightgown over the top, the hem of it ruffled and fluffy, the sleeves short and the collar silk with a single button. The color against his freckled skin is breathtaking. Castiel’s eyes rove over every inch of him, committing it all to memory, his gaze falling to the floor where Dean’s feet are tucked prettily into a pair of nude stilettos. 

Castiel’s mouth goes dry.

Dean starts rambling. “I’m glad we decided to do this here, your loft has a really cool feel to it that I think complements this outfit and uh, the twinkle lights are good too, and… uh… Cas?” 

Castiel jerks his gaze up to Dean’s face. His makeup is glowy and soft, the focus on his perfect complexion and the matte, nude pink lipstick on his mouth. His hair is artfully messy; he probably used some sort of wax to get it to stick up in the many directions it’s pointing, his cheeks flushed from Castiel’s gaze.

He looks like he’s been ravished.

“Bed,” Castiel finally says when he’s confident he can speak. Wincing at the command, he gestures towards the bed. “The light is soft here. This is where we can start.” 

Dean strides over to the bed with much more ease than Castiel thought he could, with the height of those heels. They clack with every step over Castiel’s wood floors. He brings the camera up to his face as Dean starts to climb onto the bed; the negligee is a thong in the back, Dean’s perky bubble butt visible through the sheer kimono draped over his frame. Castiel swallows thickly. 

“You don’t talk a lot,” Dean says almost idly. Too casual for the way he’s sinking down into the waterfall of Castiel’s bedding, twisting his body so he can look at Castiel - at the camera - while the shutter clicks. “Quiet kinda guy?” The base of his spine dips, the curve of his ass accentuated.

Castiel isn’t sure how to answer that, so he doesn’t. He’s never talked excessively. He’s never seen the point - not since graduating from college, anyway. He doesn’t need words to tell a story; that’s what his photos are for. But he doesn’t know how to tell Dean this, especially since Dean has never asked, so he just doesn’t, shifting where he’s standing and checking his digital display after a few snaps. He drags his softbox over to him and connects the bluetooth to his camera, lifting his camera back up to his face. Dean has rolled onto his back, head by the pillows, one of the strands of twinkle lights curling around a strong calf. 

Dean, as usual, doesn’t seem to mind Castiel’s silence.

They move together in a quiet symbiosis. Dean arranges himself, Castiel shoots. Occasionally Castiel adjusts his light, moves to the curtains to pin them or loosen them, but for the most part they’re quiet as they work, the music too soft in the background to be properly heard. Castiel’s ears instead fill with the sound of Dean moving over the sheets; silk over skin, satin catching eyelashes.

After about fifteen minutes of Dean on the bed, Castiel straightens, his gaze sliding over towards the bathtub. Dean follows his gaze and lights up, scooting to the edge of the bed. Dainty though his outfit may be, Dean is still very much _man_ as he hauls himself up off of the bed. As he passes by Castiel the photographer drops his eyes - Dean is free of hair. Smooth. Waxed, most likely.

Interesting.

Castiel hangs back to get some shots of Dean walking away from him, silk swishing side to side. Dean has no tattoos. 

Beautiful.

There’s an errant thought in Castiel’s head that he’s pretty sure he and Dean don’t know each other well enough to be doing this sort of intimate, boudoir-type shoot, but he can’t be bothered to care. Not when Dean perches himself on the edge of the bath, elegant lines as he leans over to turn a brass knob to get the hot water to pour. 

Castiel has never photographed anything like this before. 

After Dean he doesn’t think he’ll photograph anything like this again.

The shutter hasn’t stopped clicking. Castiel is barely even conscious of hitting the button anymore. He has half a mind to double back and grab his softbox and aim it towards the bath, testing a few shots to make sure he doesn’t get flashback off of any of the shiny surfaces, and then he starts moving around. Steam billows up from the bath and Dean reaches to the shelf on the wall to grab the jar of lavender scented salts; he turns to look at Castiel, head tilted in question, and Castiel gets the shot. 

He nods, and Dean lights up again, unscrewing the lid with fingertips painted like rose petals. The shutter clicks.

Rose petals.

Castiel turns and takes a few steps towards the kitchen, pulling open cupboards until he finds the jar he wants. He’s got a jar of rose petals that he’d been saving to make potpourri with, but this is a much better opportunity. He brings the jar back to where Dean is gently swirling the bath water with his fingertips, still poised gracefully on the ledge of the tub. Dean takes the jar from Castiel with a grin, and Castiel kneels, angling his shot to get the length of Dean’s leg starting at his high heel and tapering to his hip as Dean starts to flutter the rose petals into the water. 

With the steam billowing, Dean’s complexion is getting more radiant, softly flushed, the highlighter on his cheeks melting into his skin and glowing. Castiel crouches for some shots, stands for others, and he gets the stretch of Dean’s muscular arm reaching for the tap to turn on the cold water. Castiel moves to stand on the other side of the glass partition, shutter clicking, the glass fogging and shrouding Dean’s figure. 

Castiel has always associated Dean with beer and classic rock music. This version of his identity is new and intriguing and yet Dean falls into it with such familiarity; Castiel has the inkling he’s the first to see Dean like this. 

Oh, the misplaced possessive curl in his stomach.

Dean’s attention turns, and his smile is impish as he stands up and moves over towards the glass. Castiel takes a large step back in order to fit Dean’s tall frame in the shot. His breath gets caught in his throat when Dean presses bodily against the glass, chest to knee, head dropped back as his arms extend above his head so his fingers can curl around the top of the glass. 

The shutter clicks. 

Dean starts moving his body, then, slowly. Sensually. He’s smearing through the steam on the glass, different parts of his body going in and out of focus, parts of his negligee getting damp and dragging. He pulls away to allow the glass to fog up again and then he turns his back to it, ass pressing against the glass, buttcheeks leaving a perfect imprint. Castiel’s breath hitches again. 

This is… tasteful, softcore porn.

And he’s just allowing it to happen, giving Dean complete control. 

Dean bends over, and Castiel gets the shot. Dean straightens and pulls away, the glass fogging over again, and Castiel gets a shot of his profile through the steam. The length of him is beautiful; from the top of his tousled hair, down the curve of his chest and the swell of his ass, the slight bow of his legs and the taper into the dangerously high heels. 

Castiel stands up, his cock half hard. He rounds the glass partition and Dean watches him with hooded eyes, the smallest of smirks on his pink lips as he glides over to the bathtub. He perches on the ledge again and then bends, the shutter clicking as Dean’s fingers slide up his leg from ankle to knee, deliberate. Castiel is watching Dean through the lens and committing everything to memory as though he’s not going to be able to look at the photos later.

With a shift of silk and ruffle Dean stands, turning off the tap. The tub is full now and the water isn’t steaming anymore, which must be enough for Dean to decide to get in. The act of getting in while wearing lingerie and heels shouldn’t be so… _inspirational_ , but it is, and Castiel finds himself getting frame by frame the process of Dean lowering himself into the water. Castiel hurries to the island in the kitchen to grab a stool and comes back to the tiled area to put it next to the bath, Castiel carefully climbing onto the stool to stand. Sure he has his balance and almost positive the stool won’t slip, Castiel brings the camera back up to his face as Dean settles into the water.

The silk clings to his body. Nothing is left to the imagination, and as Castiel sweeps his gaze down Dean’s form, he sees the man has tucked himself away to give the illusion of a smooth, flat groin. 

Castiel swallows and licks his lips.

This is art. 

The rose petals float around Dean and his nipples harden under the negligee, obvious under the lace and silk. The water sloshes as Dean moves his body, creates movement around him, the camera focusing on different points with each photo; the crest of the water, the curve of Dean’s knee, the green of his eye, the way his heeled foot hangs over the ledge.

Castiel can’t recall if Dean has ever mentioned that he models, but Castiel finds himself thinking that Dean could take the world by storm from this alone. 

The material of the nightie clings to Dean in, what should be, awkward places, but Dean moves elegant as ever. His makeup is undisturbed, his hair damp, not totally soaked. They shoot until Dean starts shivering and then Castiel is coming down from his stool quickly, helping Dean out of the tub and wrapping a fluffy, clean towel around his shoulders. Dean’s teeth chatter slightly when he smiles in thanks. Castiel helps him removed the soaked clothing and when Dean is naked and drying himself off Castiel leaves the tiled area to grab Dean’s rollercase, bringing it over to him.

“Thanks,” Dean says gratefully. He kneels to unzip the case and Castiel turns away, starting to break down his equipment. They can’t continue if Dean is cold.

 

Once Dean is dressed in a pair of loose sweats and a soft looking sweater, Castiel fixes them both mugs of hot cocoa. He piles them with whipped cream and he sits on the couch with Dean, their legs sharing a blanket as they curl up on opposite ends. 

“So…” Dean says, using his finger to scoop the whipped cream from his mug. He’s stopped shivering.

Castiel stays quiet, eyes encouraging Dean to continue.

“That wasn’t weird?” 

Blinking slowly, Castiel shakes his head, his brow furrowing. Why would that have been weird? Dean is one of the most - if not _the_ most - confident people Castiel has ever come across. He always seems so sure of himself, and in front of a camera he’s amplified. 

“I just-” Dean lets out a little laugh, sucking the whipped cream from his finger and dropping his gaze. “I’ve always wanted to do something like that. I mean- dress like that. And uh. Be photographed.” 

“You’re a lovely model,” Castiel compliments honestly.

Dean sends him a thoughtful glance. Castiel doesn’t say much - never has - but the way Dean looks at him sometimes makes him feel like he doesn’t need to say everything on his mind for the younger man to understand him. 

“Most photographers I know woulda laughed me away the second I showed them reference photos,” Dean says.

Castiel is not most photographers. 

Dean knows.

“You ever model?” Dean asks. He’s eaten enough of his whipped cream to get at the steaming cocoa under it, and he takes a sip. His lipstick stays in place.

Castiel shakes his head. “Wrong side of the camera.” 

Dean smiles, and it’s oddly indulgent. “Got a tripod and a remote?”

Castiel’s head tilts, his expression curious.

Dean’s smile only grows. “I wanna do your makeup.”

“Oh,” Castiel breathes in surprise. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t- you don’t-”

Dean’s backtracks a little, “I mean- only if you want it. I don’t wanna force anything on you. But Cas, you’re- man.” He laughs and runs his free hand through his hair. Whatever styling product he had in it had been melted by the steam, and the sandy locks are all sticking up in odd directions. “You don’t gotta show anyone. But I… Can we get some photos of me doin’ your makeup?” 

Castiel stares at his wilting whipped cream. He’s been photographed casually, candidly, at many events. But he’s never used his own equipment on himself. And he’s also never had his makeup done before, so doing both things in one go is, at first, a slightly overwhelming thought. But then he lifts his gaze up to Dean who looks soft and earnest and Castiel knows that he’d let Dean do anything to him.

Do anything for Dean.

When Dean’s eyes are on his, Castiel nods slowly. 

Dean moves immediately, putting his unfinished cocoa on the coffee table and heading towards the bed where his makeup kit and suitcase are. He opens his makeup case and pilfers around the contents while Castiel stands and gets his tripod, working on carefully screwing the mount to his camera, and then just as carefully putting his camera on the tripod. Dean grabs one of the chairs from Castiel’s two-person kitchen table, bringing it out into the main area. Together they move the couch and the coffee table, clearing the space, Castiel going behind his camera to check the framing. The window will be on the right side, the edge of the wing chair on the left. 

He grabs the remote from where it’s velcroed to the tripod, holding it loosely in his fingers as he sits down in the chair. He clicks the button on the remote for a test shot and then stands up to go check it, making a few minor adjustments. 

“Zoom in a little more,” Dean says next to Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel adjusts the zoom until Dean says it’s good. It’s quite tight. He sends Dean a curious glance but doesn’t ask for details as he moves to go sit down in the chair. He’s still wearing the white vneck and sweats, and Dean stays in his own comfy clothes. Casual, then. Once Castiel is seated he watches Dean approach with only an eyeshadow brush in one hand, a length of thin silk in the other.

“There’s something else I’ve been thinking about,” Dean says with the tone of a confession. His voice is deep as he stands in front of Castiel. 

The shutter clicks. 

“Every time I see you, you barely say a word to me,” Dean says. “But now after spending the afternoon with you, I know you don’t need to say anything at all.” He leans forward, sliding his hands down Castiel’s arms. The shutter clicks. With Dean’s guidance Castiel’s arms move behind the chair and that length of silk winds around his wrists, binding them together.

Castiel lets him.

The shutter clicks. 

“I’ve thought about asking you out a couple times,” Dean admits. Heat flares through Castiel. “But you’re always so professional. I didn’t wanna come off as some starstruck kid.”

Castiel swallows. Dean finishes tying the silk, hands trailing up Castiel’s arms.

Click.

Dean’s hands rest on Castiel’s shoulders and then slide down his chest, gripping his hips to get him to slouch slightly in the chair. 

Castiel lets him. 

Click.

All at once Dean is on Castiel’s lap, heavy weight settling over Castiel’s thighs. Castiel exhales shortly in surprise, tipping his head back and closing his eyes to try and regain his sanity. 

Click.

“You ever see me do this to clients?” Dean asks, his voice breathy.

Castiel shakes his head. His eyes stay closed.

Dean gently presses the soft, feathery bristles of the brush to Castiel’s closed eyelid. “I’m not really going to put makeup on you.”

Click. 

Castiel’s breath leaves parted lips. Dean shifts on his lap, the grind unmistakable as Dean adjusts. Castiel inhales slowly.Dean removes the brush from his face and Castiel hears it clatter to the floor. He knows it’ll be in frame for the rest of the shots. 

“I don’t mind that you don’t talk a lot,” Dean continues, his voice pitching lower. He shifts over Castiel, his lips brushing against the shell of the older man’s ear. “I think I understand you fine, anyway.” 

Castiel nods minutely.

Dean’s lips press the softest of kisses to Castiel’s ear.

Click.

“Is this ok?” Dean asks. 

Castiel’s eyes open as Dean’s ass settles on his thighs. Green eyes are hopeful and reserved, clearly ready to accept a rejection should it come. Licking his lips, Castiel wishes he had a hand free to tangle in Dean’s hair, so he settles on nodding. 

Dean’s smile could light a thousand galaxies.

Click.

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes close, tinted lashes fluttering against his cheek, and when their lips meet Castiel suddenly feels as though he could suddenly say a million things.

He stays quiet.

Dean kisses him deeply and thoroughly. He licks into Castiel’s mouth, the contrast of his dominant tongue and the delicate roll of his hips dizzying. His fingers tangle in Castiel’s hair, he tilts Castiel’s head just the way he wants it, slowly taking the older man apart with his tongue, teeth, and lips. Castiel’s eyes are closed. His fingers go lax. He accepts Dean’s kiss and reciprocates what he can but allows Dean to control it, to steer it, take what he wants. 

Click. 

When Dean pulls away his eyes are dark and his lips are swollen, the lipstick he’d been wearing smeared around his mouth and probably smeared around Castiel’s, too. Castiel’s eyes drop to take it in and he wants to photograph it _so damn bad_ but he stays in his loose bonds, he stays under Dean. 

Why someone as young and vibrant as Dean wants to do anything with a middle-aged photographer is totally beyond Castiel, but he doesn’t feel like breaking the spell to ask. 

Dean’s hands lift to cup Castiel’s features, thumbs pressing into the hollows of his cheeks. Dean’s eyes look their fill and it’s an artist eye appraising him; Castiel knows the look well. Even though Dean chose not to do Castiel’s makeup, he’s still looking at him as though he will. Taking the angles of his face, where the lines crease his eyes, the slight chap to his lips. Cataloguing flaws to exchange them for beauty. 

Castiel is fully dressed, but he feels naked. 

A smile curls Dean’s lips. He hitches himself up on Castiel’s lap and the way he relaxes makes it obvious he’s no longer bracing his weight with his feet on the floor. Castiel’s own thighs flex and tense to support Dean and then he’s being kissed again, Dean’s fingers dragging from Castiel’s jaw down his neck towards the vee of his shirt.

Click. 

Dean huffs a chuckle into Castiel’s mouth. “Ever photograph yourself getting a blowjob?” 

Whatever words Castiel want to say get stuck in his throat. 

He opens his eyes to watch Dean sink to the floor. His finger hovers over the shutter button while Dean puts all of his focus on tugging Castiel’s sweats down past his knees, leaving the material at his ankles. Castiel isn’t ashamed of his cock and how flushed it is, the past few hours of photographing Dean proving to be the most effective form of foreplay he’s ever partook in. Dean seems thrilled, humming low in his throat and leaning forward to swipe his tongue over the precum, using the tip of his tongue to smear the pearly liquid over his lips. 

Click.

Dean pushes the material of Castiel’s shirt up a bit, his eyes taking in the lines of Castiel’s abdomen. He hasn’t hit the gym in a while but Dean clearly likes what he sees, leaning forward to press hot, open-mouthed kisses across the expanse of skin beneath Castiel’s belly button. His trail leads him back down to the base of Castiel’s cock and he breathes there for a few beats, quite obviously breathing in the scent.

Castiel’s head tips back to hang, eyes closed, lips parted in a silent thanks to heaven.

Click.

It’s been too long since Castiel has received good head. In general it’s been too long since Castiel has been with a romantic partner. He pushes that thought out of his head as Dean swallows him nearly all the way, Castiel bringing his chin down to his chest to watch as Dean pulls up, leaving a shiny trail of saliva behind. Spit drips down Castiel’s shaft and it’s messy, dirty, Dean slurping and sucking and lifting a hand to fondle and play with his balls. Castiel lets out a slow breath, his dick twitching as he relaxes the tension in his body, and Dean lets out a chuckle when the head of his cock slaps against his chin. 

Click.

Castiel can feel the spit dribbling down his balls, likely dripping down onto the floor. Dean stands up and looks at Castiel thoughtfully for a moment, before lifting his hand in a ‘wait’ gesture. 

Castiel rolls his eyes as Dean walks away.

Like he’s going anywhere.

He watches Dean strip from his sweats and sweater and pull out another sheer nightgown from his suitcase, donning the white, translucent garment and stepping into his heels before he walks back to Dean. The material billows behind him and Castiel admires Dean’s hands as they tie the silk sash around his waist, accentuating his figure. His cock is erect, bobbing in the air, the nightgown catching on tip as it swishes with his movements. He comes into frame and Castiel pushes the shutter button; from this angle Dean looks ethereal. He can’t imagine what he looks like on camera.

Dean stands next to the chair and then swings his leg over Castiel’s lap, this time with his back to Castiel’s chest. 

Castiel groans. 

He looks down at where Dean’s ass is perched on his lower abdomen. He can’t see the action, but he feels Dean take both their cocks in his hand, skin pulsing, flesh hot. Dean’s balls rest against the base of his cock and then Dean’s leaning back, Castiel’s forehead pressed to his shoulders. 

Click. 

Castiel knows Dean’s body looks divine, draped in an angel’s veil with his high heels pointed elegantly. 

Castiel probably looks wrecked. 

Dean’s hips swivel and he’s grinding their cocks together. With a bit of encouragement Castiel is helped to sit up slightly straighter, the strain on his shoulders lessening, white hot pleasure bursting through him when Dean drops his head back on his shoulder and squeezes their dicks tight. 

“I want you to take more photos of me,” Dean starts saying, his voice barely more than a whisper, touched out and breathy. “In every position. On every surface. Wearing… ah, wearing whatever you want me to wear.” 

Dean can’t see Castiel, so he’s forced to speak.

“Yes, Dean.”

“You’re so fuckin’ hot, Cas,” Dean nearly whines. He sits up straight, curling over on himself slightly as he starts rhythmically jacking their cocks. “You don’t even know it.” 

Click. 

Castiel’s head hangs back, eyes on the twinkle lights wrapped around the piping on his ceiling. He closes his eyes, because he’d rather think about how Dean looks right now. Wants to memorize every noise falling from his lips as he takes his pleasure from Castiel in whatever way he wants. 

Castiel’s hips move. Dean moves a hand back to brace on Castiel’s hip and he hears the heels planting into the floor, some of Dean’s weight being alleviated. Now able to move his hips Castiel starts grinding upward, fucking into Dean’s fist. The slide is wet, and then there’s something that feels suspiciously like a glob of spit falling onto the tip of his dick and oh. God. 

Click. 

“You see me like this and don’t ask any questions.” Dean continues to speak, because he can’t ever shut up, and Castiel sort of loves him for it. At least it sounds like he’s struggling to put together coherent sentences. “Would love to see you in a pair of heels.”

Castiel’s dick twitches and he groans in response to those words. 

Encouraged, Dean continues. “Would you like that? Get dressed up all pretty in a nightie and… mmn.” He gives a slow, dirty grind. “Think we’d look real good, together like that.” 

Click.

Castiel’s balls draw tight, but this isn’t enough. Castiel’s legs shift and he debates pulling free of the loose silk bonds, weighing the pros and cons in his head. After about three seconds of thought he can’t find any cons so he twists his wrists and the ribbon flutters to the floor - click - and then Castiel is reaching up to put his hands over Dean’s hips. Dean lets out a surprised noise and then laughs brightly when Castiel starts helping him get his legs up and body situated. With Dean now facing him proper Castiel sits up in the chair and slides his hands around to the small of Dean’s back, forcing his spine to arch, their cocks still pressed together as Castiel leans in to steal a kiss. Dean melts into it - click - and Castiel bucks his hips slightly before he settles back against the chair again.

He’d only wanted to encourage a position change.

Dean seems perfectly fine in picking the pace up again. 

He takes them in hand once more and now being able to see Dean fall apart has Castiel edging closer and closer to release. Dean’s nipples are hard and perky, his skin flushed under his freckles. Castiel lifts a hand to feel over the material of the sheer nightgown - click - and then reaches to undo the sash tied around Dean’s waist. The material falls open and Castiel leans forward to start pressing open-mouthed kisses over Dean’s chest, biting, licking and sucking. Dean’s free hand flies into Castiel’s hair, gripping tight and tugging. It’s a slow build, has been since the moment Dean stepped out of the bathroom wearing that negligee, and Castiel feels the current take him under unexpectedly.

His orgasm spills over Dean’s working hand - click - and he watches the way Dean’s eyes are glued to his release - click - before Dean tips his head back, exposing the column of his neck as he crests as well. Their cum pools and mixes on Castiel’s stomach and they both pant heavily, skin flushed, hair mussed, Castiel’s fingers tangled in the nightgown. Dean stands on shaky legs, laughing softly - click - and Castiel knows smitten is written all over his features as he regards Dean.

Lifting his clean hand to card through his messy hair, Dean smiles down at Castiel. The shadows from the setting sun play over his cut abdomen, the nightgown pooled in the crooks of his elbows, exposing his freckled shoulders, the hem of it sweeping the floor by his heels. 

Click. 

“I should come over more often so we can…” Dean’s gaze rakes over Castiel’s wrecked form. “...not talk.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh, his head dropping back as post-orgasmic bliss courses through him. 

Click.


End file.
